In Chains
by SonicSilverShadowScourge
Summary: Your name is Gamzee Makara. You haven't heard your name, first or last, in almost over two sweeps now, and you're getting up and motherfucking sick of it. Though you have been 'Grand Highblood' for two sweeps, the ceremony wasn't done until today. Your name is Tavros Nitram and you curse your bad luck. You should have left your hive as fast as your wings would have allowed.
1. Chapter 1

The 19th bilunar perigee of the 6th dark season's equinox.

Subjugglator Highblood christening celebration.

= Be the (New) Grand Highblood

Your name is Gamzee Makara. At least, that is the official name you were given after your wriggling day. 'The Grand Highblood' is just a title that you were adorned with once you reached 9.69 sweeps, (21 years to those unfamiliar with the Altrenian calendar). You haven't heard _your_ name, first or last, in almost over two sweeps now, and you're getting up and motherfucking sick of it. Though you have been 'Grand Highblood' for two sweeps, the ceremony wasn't done until today because of the sudden unexpected clearance of said position. You are officially documented as the youngest indigo to take the position of 'Grand HIghblood' in Alternian History. The celebration that you are currently attending confirms this. The moment you settled into your damned predecessor's throne, wild shouts and loud cheers reached practically hysterical tones. Mirthful Messiahs! The motherfuckers all need to shut up. You raise your hand to silence them. They quiet almost immediately.

You take a moment to drink up the silence. _Silence_. Now that's something you haven't heard in a really long fucking time.

If only it could stay this quiet. But the sooner this shit starts, the sooner you can go to your recuperacoon and a fresh batch of sopor slime. With a wave of your hand, you announce to the flock, "Brothers, and sisters, let's get this Dark motherfuckin' Carnival started." The cheers from the painted faces around you are even louder than before and it takes every fiber of your being not to equip your clubkind in your strife specibus and start crushing some skulls.

As the events get started under the tent, one young sister-in-training (you guess about 6 sweeps) walks carefully up the steps of your throne so tenderly one might think that she was trying to walk on cluckbeast eggs. On a tray that she is holding with both hands is a tall wide-rimmed glass filled with red liquid. Faygo. Finally, something to calm your nerves.

You watch her, your face set in stone-like neutrality; her eyes meet yours for a brief moment and almost immediately she looks away.

She is scared, very scared.

Of what?

Messing up?

Tripping and spilling the contents of the glass?

Of you?

You chuckle humorlessly at the last thought. She should be.

You keep watching with mild amusement as she reaches the last step and moves to your right, quickly bending one knee, nearly causing the glass to tip and the liquid to roll along the lip of the glass. With the direction of the momentum tied with her sudden kneeling motion you already know that if she hadn't immediately corrected herself, the drink would have spilled on you and the throne. If it had spilled on you, she would have gotten away with a severe flogging at least. Unless, of course, you had decided to give her a pardon, but with your volatile temperament, that's one motherfucking miracle she'd never see.

The throne of The Grand Highblood is a national treasure and a holy, sanctified, spiritual artifact of the church, so thoroughly painted in the rainbow blood of past victims the original color of stone had been long forgotten. It was well-preserved, kept away from moist conditions, conserved by the bishops, guarded by the best warriors, and when the annual rain came during the Dark seasons, transported to the driest and most temperate area in the empire.

All that for a motherfuckin' dusty seat?

You personally don't give a shit either way.

To you it is just an big, motherfuckin' uncomfortable stone chair. Still, you must treat it with the upmost respect. Not even you, The NEW Grand Highblood, could disrespect this damn overblown seat and expect impunity. The best _you_ could expect is a private trial by the church, and a quick and easy culling. Any other troll would be automatically sentenced to the intense and amazing miracle of chucklevoodoo torture. By the time the bishops, who administered the torture, would put them out of their misery-if they had any sponge left in their thinkpan, that is –they would be dying, wishing that the culling drones had gotten to them first.

At least that would have been the goddamn scenario if the girl had spilled your drink.

She kneels again, more slowly this time, and holds the tray above her bowed head in offering, beads of sweat forming on the back of her neck, probably realizing at last the consequences of her near-mistake. After a moment she speaks, keeping her tone as respectful as she can. "I have your ceremonial glass of red Faygo, Great One."

As soon as you hear 'Great One,' you are momentarily unable to hide your growing frustration, as a deep but audible rumble builds up in your throat.

She hears the sound of your anger and begins to shiver, not daring to lift her head up.

Good. The bitch needs to be scared. No… Motherfucker needs to be up and _panicking_ that she has angered you.

You feel your hand idly reaching for your strife specibus, wanting more than anything to work out the torrent of irritation that has been building up over the recent perigees. Yet the miracle of reason somehow manages to work its way into your mind. She is just doing what she was taught. You stifle your growl and do your best to reel in your aggravation. Irritation and frustration ain't far from motherfucking rage. You don't need to get angry. You get angry, you get crazy. You get crazy, someone is going to die. Painfully.

You take a deep breath, count to ten, and gently pick the glass up to take a sip. You motion with your hand to dismiss the quivering girl. She walks down the steps just as gingerly as she had walked up, rubbing the back of her head all the way down as if amazing that it was still intact.

You're just tired of the damn names and titles. You want to hear your own fucking name for once.

'Sir.'

'Highblood.'

'Great One.'

'Majesty.' Amazingly, you didn't kill the troll who had said that one. He might never be able to swallow solid food again, but you didn't kill him. You don't care about respect. You just hate disrespect.

It's a celebration in your honor. No fellow sister or brother needs their think-pan opened. At least not tonight.

The music has already started by now and everyone is dancing and drinking like they won't be alive to see tomorrow.

Everyone except you.

You're still seated in the throne and trying to be as civil as possible. You are surrounded by brothers and sisters wanting to cater to your every need, want, or wish. Your glass of Faygo is refilled after every sip you take. Too many damn voices ask you too many damn questions at the same time, all beginning and ending with the labels you hate to hear. Despite your civil, if slightly forced demeanor, they eventually seem to clue in that you are not in the mood. As much as you want to tell them to just up and leave you the motherfuck alone, you can't. You can't quite remember why, though. Tradition or some shit like that.

You pray silently to the mirthful messiahs that the entertainment starts soon.

The constant attention and unwanted company are just two of the many downsides you slowly discover. Being the strongest indigo on the motherfuckin' planet has more drawbacks and short comings than you had originally thought. If you had fucking figured that out before you were challenged by the previous Grand Highblood you might have reconsidered beating his motherfucking skull in as quickly as you did, but you've never really been one for thinking out your actions.

After a while the music begins to wane, signaling the start of tonight's entertainment. Finally. You don't know how much longer you could have lasted. You raise your hand, giving your overzealous followers a dismissive wave. The servants around you quickly excuse themselves and disperse to their seats. With no one constantly whispering in your ear, you can finally observe the festivities and take a moment to examine the fresh quarry being led in by chains.

= Be one of the fresh quarries.

Your name is Tavros Nitram, more popularly known by the (few) people of your hemocaste as 'The Summoner', and you curse your bad luck. You are currently being led (read: dragged) into the infamous subjugglator rainbow carnival big-top. In all honesty, you can only blame yourself for your current situation. You had heard rumors that the wingbeast-shit crazy indigo church had a celebration coming up, and when the church had a reason to celebrate, the lowbloods usually suffered. You should have left your hive as fast as your wings would have allowed, but you couldn't just leave Tinkerbull. He would have been little more than a training dummy for juggalo clubs and you cared too much for your fairy custodian to let that happen You had stayed even as your lusus begged you to go. Not all the money in the Alternian Royal Treasury could have convinced you to flee.

The church had a favourite pastime that also worked as a way for gathering entertainment for their parties. 'Heme-hunting 'they called it. Translation? Grabbing any unsuspecting troll off the street or dragging them from their homes. The latter is what happened to you. You had set up a protective perimeter of various kinds of beasts around the lawn ring of your hive to act as an early warning system. If any unknown troll approached too close, they would let you know.

It had almost worked, too.

You didn't count on being knocked unconscious as you tried to abscond.

By the time you had gotten your wits about you, you were already shackled by your wrists and ankles, strife specibus empty. Thick metal cuffs so closely welded together that your walk was like a cold-birdbeast's waddle, the chains that bound your legs and arms linked to the chains binding the troll in front of and behind you, and theirs to another toll's, and so on.

Great! A chain gang.

The clowns thought ahead. It was impossible to run, much less fly, away. You certainly weren't going to even try to summon your wings; you wouldn't put it past these clown-faced bastards to rip them from your back before beating you into the ground. Can't fly. No lance. No beasts for miles, though you doubt they had planned that last one. They're psycho, not psychic. Just had to keep the proverbial ace up your sleeve and wait for you chance to play it.

So here you are, one long painful forced march later, being dragged into the den of the prowlbeasts, so to speak. As soon as you enter the tent, your hearing ducts are bombarded with boos, insults, and death threats. You pay them no mind. Your blood may be brown, but you don't give a shit what these nooksniffers say. They are idiots to you.

You and the other captives are lined up just outside the center ring of the tent. You take a moment to look at your fellow prisoners. You don't recognize anyone here. It's a small consolation, but you'd rather not see a familiar face in a place like this.

Beneath the swell of voices, you hear a rapid gasping sound. You glance over to your right. The troll next to you is panicking. His yellow eyes wide, dark maroon droplets of sweat beading on his forehead, his hands grip at the symbol on his chest in the same fashion a starving barkbeast would hold a large cut of meat between its nudge him with your elbow.

"Hey, are you okay?" you whisper. His eyes snap to your face, and his demeanor changes from absolute fear to immediate recognition. He gasps, and then quickly looks away to keep from attracting any unnecessary attention to you or him. You understand his surprise.

By all accounts, you are not supposed to exist, thus you have been made into the most widely kept secret among the copper, brown, maroon, and orange castes.

No troll in the history of Alternia with blood lower than blue had ever grown wings. and it had been expected to stay that way. Until you had come along. Only daring to practice flying in the most rural and isolated areas, you had been forced to hide your gift. It had taken so long to learn how to make your wings more spiritual than physical so you didn't have to wrap them in itchy bandages at uncomfortable angles. Few trolls in your own caste know about you, but word gets around. By lips loosened by drink or slip of the tongue, it does get around.

This must be someone who had heard your story.

"Just calm down. You'll be okay," you whisper.

"No, we won't. We're going to die." As soon as the words leave his lips he begins to panic again. His breathing becomes more erratic, coming out in choked, uneven gasps. "I a-am t-t-the smallest one here. T-They will c-c-c-cull m-me-f-f-f-f-f…" He can't seem to bring himself to say it through his stuttering. He grips his shirt even tighter, his grey knuckles turning white. He is less than a step away from a full on panic attack. "I want m-m-my moirail."

You pap him on the back. "Shooosh." You hum, attempting to calm him. It works. His breathing becomes more even and he releases his grip on his shirt. "No one's dying tonight," you murmur, managing to distract him from the situation. He turns his head further away from you.

"H-H-H-H-H-How d-d-d-do y-y-y-you k-k-know?" he stammers. The question makes you pause, anxiety twisting in your mind. You don't. Everyone you came in with, yourself included, have little chance of seeing the next night. But you can't go telling him that.

"What's your name?" you ask. The troll's shoulders relax very slightly as you change the subject. He doesn't seem to notice that you had ignored his question as he turns his head slightly to look at you again. "M-m-my n-name is D-Dyvinra Sani-"

Suddenly and without warning, a juggalo you hadn't seen stalks up from your left and arcs his club down on the troll's head in a vicious swing.

_CRACK!_ The sound is loud and acid-sack churning.

Dyvinra's eyes roll up and his legs bend slightly as if he is trying to regain his balance against the gravity that pulls him down, like he wants to keep standing for a few more seconds. He moans. It's a soft dry sound that rattles in his chest for a moment before he crumples face down in the dirt.

His body doesn't even twitch.

The indigo cackles at the unmoving body, beginning to chant 'Rustblood,' as Dyvinra's blood begins to flow out of the large split in his skull. The spectators, who had witnessed the whole thing with great delight waste no time in joining the chant.

You don't hear any of it. You stare at the body frozen between shock and fury. You were just talking to him. You didn't even get to hear his full name. Your vascular pump clenches. You had lied right to Dyvinra's face, told him it was okay, and then he had been killed. Just gone in an act of mindless highblood brutality.

As two teal bloods carry the body away, a strong anger washes over you. You want more than anything to break free of these shackles and strangle the juggalo who had struck down Dyvinra. It must have shown on your face, because the taller troll stops laughing as your eyes meet his. The indigo's expression darkens and he advances toward you.

"What the fuck are you looking at, shitblood?" he spits through sharp, crooked teeth. You don't respond, matching him glare for glare. He gets closer until your face is practically touching his. "You want to try something?" he hisses. You don't feel the need to answer him.

For a moment the two of you stare each other down like there is nothing else in the world, until he suddenly bursts into laughter. You cringe inwardly; his breath smells worse than the fresh hoofbeast patties you had to clean up in the stable back home. "Don't worry. You and the rest of these rustblooded motherfuckers will be joining him soon. It's all for the Great One's entertainment." He saunters away, resuming his chanting and twirling his clubs, much to the delight of the gathered audience.

You can't help but assume that the 'Great One' has to be on the huge stone seat directly in front of you

You stare up at the troll on the throne. The tall thin bastard is looking right back at you. And he is smiling.

= Gamzee: Be the Tall Thin Bastard

Your eyes are drawn to a rather small rustblood. You have a talent for recognizing fear and it's practically rolling off of the little shit in waves. All of the lowbloods spread out below you are clearly afraid, but this one is practically _shitting_ his pants. All up and clutching at his shirt, he looks about ready to pass out. You smirk in mild amusement as he glances at the troll next to him. Your gaze follows his, and the smirk drops from your features as you recognize him as a Taurus. The symbol on his chest reflects the shape in which his horns sprout from his head. He seems to be whispering frantically to the terrified little shit next to him.

Trying to plan an escape? No, it looks like something else.

You narrow your eyes, examining the Taurus closer. The motherfucker isn't scared. His face is a mask of composition. The way he's standing, the way he's holding his head up, his posture conveys the utmost confidence. Never in all your sweeps have you seen a shitblood hold itself as proudly as this one does. The rustbloods are usually such pathetic creatures, all bowing their heads and begging for mercy and such. But not this one. He's different. You hate different.

When you glance back at that first little shit, you can't believe what you are seeing. The little fucker seems calmer, getting his wicked chill on. He's up and holding a motherfucking conversation with the Taurus like he's completely forgotten where he is! You quickly scan the rest of the line. Motherfuckers are watching the pair, getting all up and calmed down just by the sight of them so serenely chatting away.

This simply won't fly, bro. You need to remind the little shits just where the fuck they are and who the fuck they're dealing with.

You nod to the one of the Masters of Ceremony, pointing at the originally terrified lowblood. Starting the games off with a little show of force is always a crowd pleaser, and you're not one to disappoint. The Master of Ceremony you nodded to signals one of the subjugglators in the arena. Wasting no time, he saunters over to crack the little shit's skull wide open. Stupid fucker hadn't even seen it coming. The blank dumbass look on his face was hilarious. You can't help but smile, but again the expression is wiped from your face. Instead of curling in fear like the rest, the Taurus stares straight up at you. There is a flame in his eyes. A motherfucking challenge.

You smile back.

This shit just got a little more interesting.

= Tavros: Strife!

A loud _HONK_ echoes through the tent and the roar of the crowd fades into silence. An indigo dressed in a rainbow-splashed hooded robe descends from the high stone table in the stands. The hood high is enough to cover her horns, but not so deep that you can't make out the feminine features of her face. She approaches the group and addresses you all. She speaks in a clear voice, her tone pleasant if slightly condescending.

"You will be fighting to the death for our entertainment," she says bluntly. "But you need not worry about harming your friends; you won't be fighting each other." You feel the links of your chains rattle as several of the trolls in line behind you being to tremble. "You will be practice for our young trainees, because if they can't fight for shit they ain't worth our spit." Peals of laughter fills the big top.

A joke. You are less than amused.

She waits for the noise to quiet before continuing: "If any of you should survive, that troll will walk free as our thanks for helping us weed out the weak." You scarcely dare to believe what you are hearing. A chance put your hands on a highblood? Not only that, but the chance to kill one and be allowed to see the next perigee? You immediately suspect that this is just some joke the clowns have made up for entertainment, but as she stands before you stony-faced, and as the crowd remains silent, you being to hope.

_Holy shit! She's serious!_

The chains stop rattling as your fellow captives, one by one, arrive at the same conclusion.

"You will be released one by one. We don't want you motherfuckers up and gettin' any smart ideas." She chuckles a little to herself. As if you could. Even if all of you managed escape your bonds, you would still be outnumbered by more than 100 to 1. You would all be dead before you made it half way out. "The arena platform is a little unstable, so take care not to fall into the pit. The spikes down there will fucking hurt," She finishes matter-of-factly with a coy wink. You don't know which is worse, what she is saying or the bright, sunny way in which she says it. "One last rule: touch your opponent's horns and be culled on the spot. That is way far off limits, brothers." You can't help but notice that she didn't say anything about _them_ touching _yours_.

Two bluebloods approach you and unlock the chains. As the metal links drop away, you momentarily contemplate making a break for the exit. If you could get outside, it would take only one strong beat of your wings to take off. Glancing toward the exit, however, your hopes wither; two Sagittarius archers flank the only exit, arrows held at the ready. There's no hope there; that clan is known for their deadly accuracy.

You are escorted into the center ring by the indigo priestess. A walkway is lowered to lead you up onto the arena platform. It feels sturdy under your feet, at least for now.

A walkway on the other side is lowered and the only indigo that had crushed Dyvinra swaggers on to the platform. twirling his clubs between his long fingers. Your friend's still-wet blood spatters several tears of red on the arena stage each time the clubs complete a rotation.

The indigo sneers at you. "Now to pay you back for that look, shitblood," he hisses, and the fight begins. The platform shakes violently with each step he takes, nearly throwing you off balance. You manage to right yourself and prepare for his onslaught. He swings toward you in a wide arc, aiming for your head. You block with your right forearm, chopping him in his protein-chute with your left hand as you do. He stumbles back, wide-eyed and stunned. Clearly he hadn't been expecting any resistance.

You don't allow him to recover. You rain blow after blow down on him, pushing forward as you to do drive him back toward the edge of the stage. He tries to jump forward, swinging his club wildly. You dance half a step back, moving just out of his reach. You advance again, sliding your left foot behind his, grabbing the collar of his shirt with both hands and pushing, slamming him backward, head-first into the stage.

He hisses and kicks you violently in the abdomen, knocking you back a few steps. Bent double and gasping from the blow, you retreat to the centre of the platform. He tries to club your horns but you advance, getting too close for him to swing. You swing upward to connect your fist with his jaw and then, grabbing his arm, whirl him around and around to throw him toward the outer edge once again.

He gets to his feet and tries to charge you again roaring at the top of his lungs. With his mouth open, you can see that some of his teeth have been knocked out. With his face paint smeared awkwardly against his skin, he looks almost comical. You would laugh in any other situation, but right now you're a little too focussed on staying alive. You leap directly at him, closing the distance between you in the blink of an eye. He swings again, aiming for your horns once more. You duck then bury your elbow in the center of his chest. You hear an oddly satisfying _crack_ as one his ribs breaks before he stumbles off the edge of the arena. He doesn't scream, just like Dyvinra.

The big top is silent as, breathing hard, you slowly look up and around. One beat, two beats pass, then the place erupts into a riot.

= Gamzee: Start Round 2.

You have just witnessed a motherfuckin' miracle.

The shitblood just culled a highblood brother-in-training without any hesitation. And it was over so motherfucking _fast_. The fight couldn't have lasted more than a minute. Your brothers and sisters have exploded into screaming and shouting, all for the Taurus' immediate culling. You don't care. You have to experience this miracle for yourself. You stand up and descend the steps of your throne.

The shouts in the stands trickle away as all attention is directed to you. By the time you get to the center ring, the audience has fallen silent once more. You smile, ejecting your juggling clubs from your strife specibus. You are only going to use your fists. The rush of an even death match is just the thing you need to work out the boredom.


	2. Chapter 2

= Tavros: Strife! Round 2

You knew it. They had no intention of letting anyone go. Practice for new recruits? What a load of shit. Judging from the crowd's reaction, there was no way you'd make it out of this place alive. You scan the tent, searching for some way to escape, but come up with nothing. You think summoning your wings to flying straight up and punch through the tent, until you hear the tell-tale sounds of many arrows nocking against the strings of bows.

It seems to be over for you. Insults, threats, and curses rain down on you. They want your blood. You watch as that tall, thin bastard stands and begins to descend his throne toward you.

As soon as the troll began to move, the audience shut up fast. The walkway leading onto the arena stage is lowered for him and he strides up to face you. He waves his hand in an upward motion signaling for the walkway to be raised, but the blueblood controlling the mechanism opens his mouth to object.

He doesn't get the chance to say anything.

In a flash, the indigo leaps over the spiked-pit and sends his fist into the blue's face, sending him flying into the stands. He then whirls to glare at the other blueblood operating the controls who, at the sight of the indigo's face, quickly sobers up.

"Now are you going to question me?" he drawls. "Or are you going to be a good little grub and do as I motherfucking say?" The blueblood seems unable to make a sound. She nods her head.

The gesture doesn't satisfy him. "You will MOTHERFUCKING SPEAK when I ask you A MOTHERFUCKING QUESTION! DO YOU UNDER MOTHERFUCKING STAND?" His voice booms so loudly and so deeply you can feel your bones vibrate with each syllable. This guy is dangerous and it looks like you're going to have to fight him.

"Y-Y-Y-" she stammers helplessly.

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!"

"Yes, Grand Highblood."

Your vascular pump freezes at her words. Highblood? As in The Grand-I-will-kill-you-in-the-most-painful-ways-possible-Highblood? The head of the Mirthful Messiah church? That Grand Highblood? Archers or not, summoning your wings to abscond right now doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

"Good. Now raise the MOTHERFUCKING BRIDGE."

He leaps back across the pit, landing with a crash that sends the stage rocking, as the blueblood works frantically to raise the walkway. He looks at you and smiles, a sinister, menacing expression. "Now, let's fight, rustblood," he whispers. "You show me your miracles and I'll show you mine." He steps forward, his unnerving smile still plastered over his painted face. The previous feeling of bravado that you had is gone, replaced by a rising feeling of foreboding.

But there is no time for fear. The Highblood is fast, despite his size, his blows coming heavy and quick. Your smaller size just barely helps you keep up. Block, redirect, attack. Even as his fists swing within inches of your precious horns, you seem to be in a dream-state, scarcely able to accept the reality of what is happening; that you, a mere rustblood, have lasted this long in hand-to-hand combat with the most feared troll in Alternia.

For a time the two of you stand locked in a feverish exchange of blows centre stage. You quickly realize, with a sinking feeling, that you're wearing out quickly. Time for a change of tactics. You spin around the highblood, darting in and out of his blind spots to strike at every opportunity.

The change, however well-intentioned, only slows you down. The platform rocks violently, causing you to lose your balance. Distracted by struggling to right yourself, you look up just in time to catch a glimpse of a large fist hurtling toward you. It connects brutally with your acid sack, knocking the wind out of you. You bend double, clutching at your midsection and fighting to get your breath back. You stagger backward. Looking up through the fringe of hair that has fallen over your eyes, you see with alarm that your spinning tactic has put you too close to the edge of the stage. You manage to sidestep the next punch, moving back to the more stable centre. You notice, with mild irritation, that the highblood doesn't even look tired, not sweating, not even panting, whereas you are quickly approaching your limit. You need a lucky shot.

You take the offensive. You wind up and throwing a wild jab at his chest, which he had left exposed, obviously considering you down for the count. You put all your weight behind the attack, closing your eyes and praying that it connects.

With a satisfying crunch, it does.

= Gamzee: Finish This.

You exhale as the shitblood's fist slam into you. The slight twinge of pain you feel is nothing short of motherfucking euphoric. It has been a while since you have enjoyed the thrill of battle. You let him have that free shot, just to keep this miracle going. The motherfucker's eyes are beaming, happy as fuck that he had managed to hit you. He's weak, but you are having too much fun to expose that. You want to keep playing with him, wearing him down until he breaks, like the fate of so many toys you had loved when you were younger. Let his gears wear out. Let his springs rust up and snap.

You can see through the thin veil of his confidence, his _pride,_ and see the fear beneath. It's so motherfucking delicious. You drink it in, doing everything within you power not to laugh at this delusional lowblood in front of you.

He hides it well, but he is afraid.

Very afraid.

You're going to bring that fear to the surface.

You take a deep breath and let your 'voodoos sing.

= Tavros: Well…Shit!

Noise!

Your head is suddenly filled with a cacophony of sound. Unnatural, guttural screams tear through your think pan. The cries of the innocent, the screeches of culling drones, sounds you can't identify, they shatter every coherent thought. The din takes over your mind. It encompasses you. You vainly slap your hands over your hearing ducts but the echoes force their way through.

You drop to your knees as your vision starts to blur, your own scream mingling with those rocketing around your mind. You shake your head wildly, but can't free yourself from the horrible spell. One voice begins to rise above the others. In a high, keening wail, it tells you…_ You are going to die here!_

Still kneeling on the platform, your force your head up, still through the pain vaguely aware of your opponent. The Grand Highblood towers over you, a terrible smirk twisting his painted features. Merciless, brutal. A monster. You realize you were a fool to even dream of leaving this place alive.

He raises one arm high above his head, prepared to strike. You attempt to bring your own arms up to defend yourself, but the second your hands leave your hearing ducts the screams increase in volume to become nearly unbearable. You clamp down again, squeezing your eyes shut, waiting for the blow to come.

Suddenly you are airborne, sailing through the empty air. In the grips of the Highblood's magic, you don't feel the pain of impact, but you're well aware that you've been hurt. Badly. Even as your back collides with the arena floor you know you won't be getting back up.

You have lost the fight. Fear clenches your guts and you manage a choked cry before darkness swoops in from the edges of your vision and you pass out.

You are Tavros Nitram, and you are now completely at the mercy of the Grand Highblood.

= Gamzee: Take your prize.

Oh, the motherfucker had fought it. Covered his ears and shit, like that would motherfucking work. Motherfucking hysterical. The widening of his eyes, the tears you could see pooling in the corners, the way he up and stumbled away…priceless. The only thing that had disappointed you was how easily the motherfucker had gone down. One serious punch, and he was gone.

The stands burst into wild applause as the shitblood drops, wickedly ignorant of your displeasure. There's no way you're up and done with this motherfucker yet. Culling him now would be too easy. You want some real motherfucking fun before you crush his pathetic little skull, not just this sorry excuse for a fight.

You saunter over to loom above his limp frame. You poke at him with one toe. Your foot comes away coated in rust-coloured blood. You grimace, disgusted, and wipe it off on the arena floor.

You raise you painted face to glare up at your cheering followers, raising your hands to shut them the motherfuck up. You nod to a pair of subjugglators lingering at the ring's edge. They trot over, and you nod down at the bleeding rustblood.

"Take this little motherfucker down to the holding cells. I ain't even close to being up and done with him." The two exchange a glance, but finally bow to scoop the troll up between them and begin to drag him out of the arena. "Keep him alive," you hiss as they pass. You want to watch the light leave his motherfucking eyes, you do.

It's clear that the audience does not approve of you sparing the shitblood. Hisses of dissent and shouted curses echo around the arena. You grin widely and raise your hands once more, signalling for quiet. "Ain't motherfucking done with him yet, kids! Just got to get my motherfucking think on as to what we're going to up and pull on him next," you shout to widespread approval. "Just get your wicked chill on, brothers and sisters. Got us a whole bunch of the little fuckers left!" You chuckle at the visible stir your words cause through the line of remaining lowbloods. You'd think they were about to up and shit themselves. You bow mockingly to the shaking prisoners and turn to ascend your throne once more.

"Let the party motherfucking continue!" you call, and the crowd bursts into wild applause as the next shitblood is hauled up onto the platform. You seem to be all eyes and motherfucking ears for the scene stretched out below you, but your thoughts are all up one what you're going to do with your little prisoner.

= Tavros: Wake Up.

You let out soft moan of pain. This kind of exhaustion is like nothing you've ever felt before. You've had your ass beaten before, but never have you felt quite so wretched. It's a deep, radiating ache that seems to stem from every part of your body at once.

You slowly crack your eyes open, only to squeeze them tightly shut once more with a groan of pain. Though dim, the green light radiating from the walls is enough to send white hot talons of pain through your throbbing skull. For a moment, the source of the light is a mystery to you, though the smell is familiar. It's sopor slime, your realize with a feeling that is almost relief, and try to push your head under with the hopes that the slime's healing properties will alleviate the pounding.

God. What the hell happened to you? Where in the fuck did you get hurt like-

It all comes back to you in a rush. The chains, the stadium, the platform, and the Grand Highblood himself.

You launch yourself out of the recuperacoon, moving as quickly as your battered body will allow. You hit the floor gracelessly, managing for a moment to keep your footing, but your fatigued muscles lock up almost instantly and your face hits the floor with a crunch. You haul yourself up to a sitting position and look around, turning your head as far as your horns will allow. You can't make out where you are; it's too bright. You can't discern any solid shapes. Only a distressing shade of purple.

Fuck. Only the church uses that shade.

You're still in trouble. They hadn't culled you instantly in the arena. They'd kept you alive for later entertainment. That bastard Highblood wanted you awake and, of course, screaming. Shitty clowns were sick like that.

Never the pessimist, you've always tried to look for the bright side of any situation. Pretty hard to fucking find one now, though. There's only one way you're getting out of here, and that's in a fucking body-bag. Hopeless tears fill your eyes and you lay back on the cold floor. A choked sob escapes your lips, and from there you lose all control. Eventually you black out once more.

The next time you wake, you are wrapped in darkness. Gone is the blinding light, to be replaced only by the dim glow of the sopor slime. The room is tiny, little more than a crack in the wall. One wall was opens to a hallway, the opening blocked with bars. The other features a small tunnel just big enough for you to crawl through, parodying the old movies you had watched with TinkerBull. A bad villain, a hostage, and an escape so obvious. It was mocking you. They were mocking you.

Looky here.

See how easy it is to escape.

Come on. Give it a try.

Give us a good hunt.

Sick clown-faced bastards.

You are well aware that as soon as you poked your head out that hole, a club would come crashing down between your horns. So much for an obvious escape.

You slowly force yourself to stand, hissing as your muscles throb in protest. You hear a metallic clink as you move. Great, more shackles. You lean up against the bars of your cell. You chuckle under your breath at your situation. You don't know why. Maybe you're just out of your shithive maggots. You take a few moments and think, and think, and think…

= Gamzee: Play with your work.

Daylight came all too quickly, bringing an end to the festivities at last. You stagger off to your chambers, though you are far too exciting to sleep. You stretch out on your bed, deciding against crawling into your recuperacoon, your wild hair splayed out about you. That little punchline blooded motherfucker is waiting for you downstairs, but what to do with him? Your advisers had told you to sleep on it, that inspiration would strike in the morning, but you want your prize now. As in right motherfucking now.

You roll from the bed and stalk over to your ablution block. You clean your body quickly, washing away the smeared face paint in favor of a fresh coat. Got to be looking your motherfucking best for such occasions.

You're reapplying the white grease paint when a loud knocking at the door breaks into your thoughts. You've just drawn a breath to tell the fucker to take a hike when she storms in, her shoulders squared in frustration, and her eyebrows knitted together in a fierce scowl. Terezi, your partner in the courts. A teal bundle of motherfucking fire and passion for justice. Though her head barely reaches your chest, she is never intimidated by you, even when you have one of your… episodes. Maybe that's why she's your motherfucking morail.

You don't speak as she sniffs the around the room, her tongue hanging out of her mouth as she tastes the air. Her head snaps in your direction and she stalks up to you. You still can't figure out how the little chica does it. She's blind, corneas seared by the burning Alternian sun, but she gets on just as well as everyone else. She stops in front of you, a wicked sharptooth smile on her face, her white high heeled boots tapping in annoyance.

"Makara! I have been waiting!" You turn to the mirror resuming your face painting.

"What have you been cooking your time on, my palesis? A feelings jam?"

Her smile fades into a scowl and her tapping stops. "I have been waiting for you to finish the paper work I have been sending to you for the last month. Our cases have been piling up and you haven't signed a single document. Eqiuis is getting sick and tired of the dead's possessions being sent for him to take care of."

You pause. Another downside to being Grand Highblood was having to deal with this kind of shit. The two of you were in high demand at the Alternian Royal Courts to investigate high profile cases. The investigation wasn't the bad part. Nothing more fun than rooting up a motherfucker's dirt, but the motherfucking _paperwork_. Shit needs to be recorded every time you cull some sorry fucker. Gotta be up and writin down all the pissy little details. Terezi's a real stickler for the rules, but you have better motherfucking things to do.

You gently put the last stroke of grey around your mouth, turning to face her. "Can it motherfucking wait? I got some wicked shit planning to do."

She sighs, taking off her red tinted sunglasses and pinching the bridge of her nose. "Gamzee, you and I know full well that if I let you go do whatever you've 'got planning', it will distract you from your work another day, things will pile up and then I will come back tomorrow it will start all over again. Do you want that?"

You just shake your head. "Good," she says, her smile coming back to her lips. "Then let's get to work." She strides out the door and returns after a moment, cradling a huge stack of paper that comes up all the way to her chin.

Oh motherfucking great!

She places the tower on the desk and you can swear you just heard the wood creak a little under the weight of hoofbeastshit you have to read and sign.

Motherfucker.

= Terezi: Do your job.

You name is Terezi Pyrope and you are doing your best.

Diamond. It's color tastes sour, yet somehow sweet, not unlike being legislacerator and morail to the Grand Highblood. The power that comes with the position has made you a great mover and shaker among your caste. No tealblood has ever been partnered with an indigo of such high standing since the great Redglare. The other side of the coin is just how high maintenance he is.

When you two were younger, associated a lot since you both knew what your future positions would be. You officially became a pale quadrant after your first investigation together. Gamzee needed so much help that your original feelings of frustration with him eventually turned into pale pity.

You carefully listen to the scribbling of the pen and the rustle of paper, pointing out when he doesn't fully sign something or tries to skip a page. "Don't try to deceive me, Gamzee," you cackle. He doesn't respond, just sighs. It's a tired sigh.

"Why you all up and bulge-busting in my nook like this, sis?" You open your mouth to respond when a voice cuts you off.

"Havve you evver had your bulge in someone's nook, Gam?" a voice from behind you speaks. You turn to a nose full of purple. Unlike Gamzee, who smells like fresh grapes, this purple smells like cheap wine. Eridan. What is he doing here? The sea dweller swaggers right past you going out of his way to bump his shoulder into yours. "WWatch wwhere your goin', lowwblood," he spits at you.

"Sorry, sir," you answer. Seadwellers like him are always fun to deal with, in the same way that culling drones are a freaking riot.

"That is none of your motherfucking business, Ampora," Gamzee snaps, his tone now sharp. "And how many times do I have fucking to tell you? Call me by my full name and not by this abbreviated shit."

Eridan chuckles, continuing on. "I don't believve you have. I've knowwn you since wwe wwere wwrigglers, Gamzee." He rolls his name over his tongue like it's a new word he's never heard of. You know it's just to annoy your morail, and it works. Gamzee's voice drops to a low grumble, dripping poison with every word.

"Just because we were moirails sweeps ago does not mean I won't hurt you now."

At the change in his voice, Eridan raises his hands in defense, trying to defuse the situation by taking a few short steps back. "WWorry not, you'll find someone wworthy of you." You feel the seadweller toss what has to be a rather nasty look in your direction, and you smile back. His quadrant envy was embarrassing.

"What are you even doing here?" Gamzee asks.

"No reason. My ships in port noww, gettin' repaired and I am waitin' for the papers to fall through, so I thought I'd dropfin." He chuckles at his fish pun. "Anywway, I wwould lovve to chat but I havve a prior engagement." He turns on his heel, flicking his cape up in an overly dramatic fashion on his way out.

"Wow, that was… random," is all you can really say.

Gamzee turns to you, handing you a piece of paper. "Somehow this trash got caught in my work," he mutters. You lick the document and almost immediately start cackling. It's the request papers for repairs to Eridan's ship. Without a second thought you rip the document into small pieces and toss them into the trashcan as you and Gamzee can't seem to stop laughing. "Here is the motherfucking last of it." He hands you the stack and after checking you turn to leave. But before you get out the door he shouts something at your back.

"Tell the guards in the dungeon to bring that…prize to my block."

=Tavros: Mourn.

The hallway is filled with cells just like yours, and in a few you can make out the shadowy forms of other trolls. No one moves or makes a sound. Everything is deathly quiet.

Your sense of smell comes back first, really a mixed blessing. You gag and pinch at your cartilage nub. The place smells like a public load gaper that hasn't been cleaned for months.

The darkness started to slowly become clearer, as your eyes adjust. You start to discern things on the wall among the purple, darker and lighter specks and patches of color. It doesn't take long for the connection to be made, and it almost makes you wish you were still out cold.

Blood.

The entire hemospectrum decorates the walls of your cell. Looking up, you see it's even on the ceiling. Now you realize why the prisoners are so quiet. Not so much prisoners as decaying bodies. It's no wonder the place stinks.

Footsteps echo down the hallway, deafening in the oppressive silence.

Forgetting your pain, you push yourself away from the bars as quickly as you can. Not quite quickly enough. You are knocked back to land heavily on the cold stone floor as two subjugglators storm in. They lift you under your arms, yanking you from the cell. For a brief moment you can better see what is left of the other prisoners.

The pure horror that you feel is the only thing that keeps you from vomiting. They sit limp against the walls of their cells in varying states of decay. One greenblood's facial skin is sagging to reveal the threads of muscle beneath. One of her eyes dangles from its socket to the hungry mouth of a distressingly large rodentbeast,

You struggle, but you laughable attempts are, at best, annoying to your captors. One of them growls and delivers a swift kick to your side. You stop resisting and allow yourself to hang limp between them. You can do nothing but watch the floor pass as you are hauled down the hallway. The tears en force, though this time they are not for you. They're for the ones who had suffered longer than you, not given even the dignity of having their body left in the wild for the beasts to eat, but instead left to rot in some fucking tiny cell. Not even allowed to be useful to the creatures of the planet. For a troll that was the ultimate final insult. You are so glad that you're being dragged face down. You don't want these high-blooded bastards to notice the brown tears streaking down your face or the silent sobs that are rocking your body.

Soon you are blindfolded.

You try to keep track of the turns that are taken and the sounds of different hallways. Soon the passages get harder to remember and shortly you can't keep track anymore. You have only a vague sense that you are being taken deeper into the castle.

You come to a sudden stop. A door creaks open and you are pushed in. You stumble over your feet, unable to catch yourself with your chained hands, and land hard on your right shoulder. Pain shoots through the right side of your body and you groan. As you try to struggle up to a sitting position, you hear your escorts take their leave.

As the door shuts a large hand wraps itself in the back of your shirt and yanks you to your feet. With a small click, the pressure on your wrists is gone. Before you even have time to relish the freedom, you are forced down into a chair and the cuffs reappear, binding your arms to the legs. Struggle as you might, you can't move. Thanks to the blindfold, you can even see your captor. The large hand moves from your arms to your head and grips tightly, making it impossible to turn your neck.

"This is going to hurt, motherfucker," a familiar voice purrs, silky smooth in the silence of the dungeon. "So I suggest you don't move a fucking muscle you understand, Shitblood?"

You can't answer. There are too many questions buzzing through your head at once. Your silence earns you and swift slap to the face. His long fingers root themselves in your hair and your head is pulled back to an unbearable angle. "I said, do YOU MOTHERFUCKING UNDERSTAND?!"

You nod still unable to speak.

"Good," he purrs.

You hiss when the sharp point of a blade is driven deep into the flesh at the back of your neck. The Highblood begins to snicker as he twists the knife, gradually working up to slicing at your skin with deliberate slowness.

It hurts.

You grit your teeth, refusing to let so much as a whimper leave your lips. After what seems like an eternity, The Highblood takes the knife out of your neck. Your relief is short lived, however, as the pain of the blade is rapidly replaced by a new pain. Some kind of liquid is pressed into your fresh wound. Hard. Whatever is, it burns worse than the blade, but still you force yourself to keep still and quiet.

You feel your body jerk, accompanied by a loud ripping sound. It takes the feeling of a slight chill against your skin for you to realize that your shirt has been ripped open. Suddenly a pain unlike any you have felt before in your life flashes across your back, you can't hold back your scream. The pain continues and you scream and scream until you pass out, for the second time today.

= Gamzee: Look Over Your New Property

Taurus passed out.

Disappointing. You wanted to see his face when you explained what you just did. You wipe the cut on your hand on the leg of your pants, leaving a brown and indigo streak on your leg. You carved your Capricorn symbol perfectly into the back of his neck and back. Your blood and indigo powder made the symbol completely a perfect flesh representation of yours. He is now your property and no one can say otherwise.


	3. Chapter 3

It took me too long to finish this chapter

* * *

= Terezi: More desk work… Not!

You are in rather high spirits right now. You have finally gotten Gamzee caught up in the paperwork that you both were behind in and that was a reason to celebrate.

You sit down at your desk, cracking your knuckles one at a time. The joints pop quietly, the sound muffled by your gloves. You draw in a deep breath to locate your husktop. You slide it closer to you loosening up your fingers a little more.

With everything finally filed, signed, and notarized, you don't need to hear Equius' firm yet e%tremely polite complaints. As strict as you are for the rules to be followed you like desk work even less than Gamzee, and that's saying a lot. But as you both can agree because anything-_anything_-is better than forms.

So when you catch the vanilla scent of a new file on your desk, one you hadn't noticed, you can't help but sigh in aggravation, making it as exaggerated and theatrical as possible for your unseen audience-you wanted to bother today-and start to push the file towards the garbage bin next to your desk. That is until the whiff of a red cherry 'URGENT' stamp mixes in with it. With an elegant, and equally theatrical, flourish you snatch the file off your desk and lick it.

You…You don't understand what you have just read. You lick it again and again until the paper is dripping from your saliva and still it doesn't sound right in your head.

You give the file one last slow lick; you feel your eyes go wide as the facts finally click in your mind. You rush out of your office grabbing your cane as you run out the door. Your secretary yells something at your back but you barely hear. If what you just read is true. It could be a rumor or gossip or… No, it _is_ true, the Legislacerator Command would never waste your time on hot air and seed flap spillage. Your heels click on the smooth tile as you run.

The soles of your boots give you about as much traction as oil slick on ice. You stumble across the floor a few times, gliding along the surface with the grace of a ballerina's broken leg but you don't slow down. Instead you adjust your angle of direction to make the ground work for you and change the placement of your step. Soon you're torpedoing along the halls, with just a few well-adjusted lunges.

You are going to need lots of back up or at least Gamzee for this job. You race up the stairs, bounding over them two and three at a time, nearly bowling over a legislacerator-in-training as you reach the top of the stairs. You don't stop to find out if the stacks of papers in his hands fall or not. The more you think about this the more it worries you, the more it worries you, the fast you run.

Makara is not going to like this.

Hell, you don't like this.

= Tavros: Lose everything.

For once you are glad to wake up in pain, glad that you are still able to feel, glad to still be alive. Especially since the last thing you remember is your skin being carved open. He cut you. The bastard sliced your back and neck open and pressed something in the wound.

What was it?

You wouldn't be surprised if it was salt. It burned like shit.

You force your body into a sitting position, an action that reminds you just how much it's taken in the last few hours. You let out a small yelp when the support of the chair brushes against your wound. The skin on your back feels tight. Swollen. The throbbing that's in time with your vascular pump is like pulsating fire. A dull tickling follows each throb. An itch.

The blind fold had been removed. Your chains rattle as you shift in your seat.

"Finally. Rise and motherfucking shine, Shitblood."

The voice has an effect on you like ice running through your veins. You shudder as heavy footsteps advanced from behind you. His breath brushes against your ear as he whispers, "What's your name?" Like hell you're going to tell him anything. You manage to keep the fear out of your voice as you snap, "Why should I tell you anything, Coldblood?"

His large hand places itself against your back. Liquid fire, coals, and glowing steel center where his hand is placed and you can't hold back a whimper. His voice is even, calm, with an uncomfortably cheerful tone to it.

"Because, my punchline-blooded motherfucker, I asked you a motherfucking question." He presses down harder. The fire and coals turn to magma and boiling tar. "So let's try this again," he continues, ignoring your agonized whimpers. "What is your mother fucking name?"

"Tavros. Tavros Nitram," you choke.

He removes his hand and the fire smolders. You don't even have time to recover from the physical pain before he speaks again. "That is no longer your name, shitblood."

= Gamzee: Break him.

You are Gamzee Makara, Grand motherfucking Highblood, and you have yourself a new pet. Granted it's a sniveling, pathetic little shitblood, but it's yours to do with as you motherfucking please.

Tavros Nitram. He's got to be motherfucking kidding. What a joke of a name. You snort, clapping a hand down on his shoulder. The pathetic little thing winces.

"No, you can up and forget about ever hearing that name again. There's a lot you'd best get up to forgetting about." You slide your hand from his shoulder to cross your arms in front of your chest. A sinister grin creeps over your features as you begin to pace slowly around the tiny room. You continue speaking in a low voice, your voice echoing eerily off the rough walls.

"Like the sky. Like the motherfucking light. You're mine now. My little pet. Ain't no way you're ever going to see anything outside of this room again. Forget the sound of rain, the smell of the earth. Forget your favorite meals. You're going to live the rest of your miserable little life on nothing more than water and sopor." You circle around to face your sole audience member, crouching down to make your face level with his. The same insane smile stills stretches your mouth as you lean forward. "Give up your dreams, shitblood," you hiss, your face is so close now that your noses nearly touch.

"There is nothing for you now. Your hive is gone, burned to the motherfucking ground by my subjugglators. Your friends are dead, lined up and slaughtered like hoofbeasts for my entertainment." You reach out and ruffle his hair with one of your enormous hands, your eyes softening for just a moment. "Maybe if you're a good boy I'll take you for a walk to see their bodies."

Your laugh booms around the cavern as you straighten up, spreading your arms wide. "This is your life now, pet!" you shout. "You'd best be getting motherfucking used to it!"

= Tavros: Get angry.

You are stunned into complete silence. You couldn't even breathe as the brutal reality of what the highblood said sucker-punches you. Hard. Your head swims and nausea washes over you. You clutch at the arms of the chair, like you could topple out if it at any moment as your mind tries to get a handle on this situation. Your blood pusher thuds against your auricular sponge clots, and you blink back the sudden burning in your eyes.

You are now a slave.

Trapped in chains.

Nameless.

You want to cry, to scream, to somehow vent the torrent of emotions that overtake you. But for some reason you can't even twitch. Suddenly, your agony begins to boil inside of you. You clench your fists on the arm rest of the chair so hard they begin to crack. You snap your head in the direction of the highblood all pain forgotten as you roar at him, "You have no right. I am _Tavros Nitram_. You may have taken away my freedom but you cannot takeaway my name!"

You know just by the change on the highblood's face that you are risking death but you are too angry to care. If he kills you, he kills you. "YOU ARE NOT ABOVE ME, SO YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO TAKE AWAY MY NAME! I AM ABOVE-NO! BETTER THAN YOU! I HAVE SOMETHING THAT YOU COLDBLOOD'S WILL NEVER HAVE. MERCY!"

You really wish you could kill this fucker in front of you. Your chains rattle and the chair creaks as you pull and strain against your bindings. Just one scratch. One punch. If only to rip that smile off his face. "YOU ARE SCUM. I DON'T SUBMIT TO SCUM. LIKE YO-"

You immediately wished you had stopped right there.

== Gamzee: Put the motherfucker in his place.

You reach your arm up and deliver the yammering little shit a stinging backhand blow across his face, cutting his pathetic rant off mid-sentence. The crack echoes around the room. One side of your painted mouth twists up in satisfaction as you watch your fingers prints come out in brown against the grey of his skin. You crouch down before him once more, a crooked smirk revealing your chiseled, broken teeth.

"Did I up and motherfucking say you could speak?" you whisper, your voice a deadly quiet. You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth in a cold mockery of chastisement. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to punish you for getting all out of line, my pet. Now let's see." You bring your long, crooked fingers up in front of your face, ticking them off as you speak. "You spoke without my permission, you up and _yelled_ at me, you used your real name, you questioned my motherfucking authority…you've been real bad, motherfucker." You click your tongue again, shaking your head slowly from side to side. You rise, pushing yourself up with your hands on your knees to circle around behind him. You feel your smile widen in anticipation. Each great hand falls gently upon one of the shitblood's ridiculous horns. You run your fingers up and down their lengths, feeling the troll beneath stiffen with a sharp intake of breath. "This is going to motherfucking hurt," you chuckle. "But what kind of master would I be if I didn't up and teach you the difference between right and wrong? Saying that a shitblood like you is above the Grand motherfucking Highblood? That's all kinds of wrong, my pet, and we need to be making sure that you never up and forget that." The little shit is whimpering something now, a soft mantra of "no" and "please". Almost motherfucking cute.

You move both hands to his right horn, wrapping one around the base and the other near the tip. "Honk honk, motherfucker," you hiss, before bearing all of your weight down onto your outer arm. The horn snaps cleanly off in your grip, about six inches from the skull.

And then the shitblood is screaming.

== Tavros: Scream.

The crack is deafening and is followed immediately by the most intense pain you could have ever imagined. You are powerless to stop the scream that rips out of your mouth as the edges of your vision begin to blur. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut and buck against your restraints, the guttural sound still streaming from your yawning mouth.

In that moment you want to die.

You feel your head tip to one side, the balance that you had grown up with now gone completely. Your ears deafened by the sound of your agony. Ringing like a bell. Every nerve in your think-pan is telling you that something has fucked you up. You scream your throat raw until you can't scream anymore. Your body compensates by forcing ragged whimpers out your throat. Arterial blood has soaked you. It seeps down your neck and your shoulder, soaking what is left of your shirt.

Everything hurts.

The pain of your broken horn can be felt everywhere. Your skull, your hands, even your tongue throbs from it. You hear a faint honking laugh in front of you. You look up at the highblood. He seems very happy with what he's done. The world starts to list sideways You pass out. Again.

== Gamzee: Seek some privacy.

The door flies open with a bang behind you. You whirl, and standing there with his mouth all agape is some half-wit blue blood. His eyes grow wide as he looks at you, the blood draining from his face. You raise your hands, the shitblood's horn still gripped tightly in your fist and look down at yourself. You're coated in a spattering of brown blood. A low chuckle wells up in your throat, bursting its way out through your jaws in a barely controlled laugh.

"What's the matter, motherfucker?" you spit at the shocked guard. "Ain't you never seen shitblood before?" He gets up to bowing his head and muttering.

"I-I…forgive me, Highblood. I heard the lowblood's screams and-"

"Yeah, yeah," you cut him off. "Little shit's got some motherfucking wicked lungs on him." You grin wickedly, running your tongue over your pointed teeth as you look down at the fainted troll. You motion for the guard to remove his shackles and reach down to take hold of his remaining horn, using it to drag his limp form from the chamber. "Just see we're not disturbed again," you call back to the guard. "We'll be up in my respite block. Ain't no one comes in, right?" The guard makes some reply, but you can't hear it under your own sinister chuckles.

OR at least that had been the motherfucking plan.

"Makara!" The voice of a certain bundle of fire suddenly booms at your back and you turn around slowly to face it. Not now. Not fucking now! She stands right in the doorway next to the bewildered guard, who looks at you with a pleading _I couldn't stop her_ practically ready to shoot from his mouth. You wave at him to keep his mouth shut and motion for him to leave. He's gone before you can blink. You know Pyrope better than anyone; no guard was going to stop her when she wanted to get somewhere.

You shift the shitblood in your arms and ask. "What is it now, chica? I'm busy." She doesn't answer for a moment. Her head rises and you see her chest expand as she inhales. Her head snaps to your direction. "Well stop being busy and come with me! You can do whatever you want later." You sigh and throw the limp form back into the chair, each chain cuff clicking as its reset around his wrists. "Why should I…" You fade as between 'why' and 'should' you look up and actually look at her.

She isn't smiling. Her jaw clenched and mouth flat. She's sweating, shivering. She doesn't even seem to notice the fact that you just chained this sorry fucker back up, and if she did, she didn't point it out. You stare at the anxious crease of her eyebrows one moment longer before it clicks. Terezi Pyrope, one of the few who _will _stand up to you, your unshakeable morail who would not even hesitate to calm you at your worst, and who would do it with a razor sharp smile on her face, is motherfucking _**scared.**_

Oh shit.

You call to the guard outside and tell him to keep your little toy in the room and to bring a healer in there for him. "Don't close up the wounds, make sure they scar." You say before turning to Terezi. "Tell me on the way." You follow her as she admits that she can't really explain it herself.

= Tavros: Burn.

Pain courses through every fiber of your being, of your soul. If you could gather the pain of every broken bone, headache, cut, scratch, scrape, and wound that you ever had since your hatching and put it all into this moment, it wouldn't even reach one fifth of the pain you feel right now. You lift your head and instantly regret it. The following throb from the splintered remains of your horn makes the room spin. Your body lurches a few times as you vomit on to the floor. You realize, through the violent retching that your still chained in THE GODDAMN CHAIR!

=Sollux: Be the hacker and break some bad news.

You name is Sollux Captor and you are as brilliant as a solar flare.

Why? Because no one else can do what you are right now. The Imperial Communications Network is a veritable mountain of information to climb, full of massive firewalls and up-to-date servers with court appointed monitors who change the access codes every two minutes Literally thousands upon millions of highblood documents, e-mails, and instant messages with codes and encryptions thick enough to pop out the screen pass in front of you within milliseconds of each other, and you are hacking every single one with your nearly obsolete bee servers.

You smile as you fingers fly over one of your many keyboards just thinking about how embarrassingly easy this is, the one thing you regret is that you can't walk up to her Condensation-yes you did that on purpose- and take credit for it. Those highblood bastards aren't as clever as they think they are. Your intrusion codes break through the firewalls and safe guards like a battering ram to an egg, copying Intel and sealing the said safeguard up before it could be detected. You type with one hand as reach over to your nearby cup of coffee, chuckling at the thought of it being detected, they wouldn't find you. Even if they traced the IP-which he looped through so many different servers that the backlog alone would blow lesser hard drives- the only place it would lead them to is a seadweller's laptop at the bottom of the sea and no one, not even the wingbeast-shit crazy indigo's, would go there.

You can't hold back a laugh as you hack into the Treasury for the weekly 'enemy-of-the-world' coffer fillings. You snip off 2 adaventi from the top 10,000 most used accounts, wire each taking through the 564 banks along the eastern bluffs that line the empire (furthest are from your base) and encode the transfer with a drizzling of your own signature red-and-blue firewalls before distributing it into 3 separate anonymous blood accounts throughout banks in the city, used specifically by the rebellion. In short, no one will notice the money is gone or see it. EVER again.

All that with just a few taps of your claws? Oh god, are you awesome. You thank yourself for the complement and change your pace. Embezzling done, you switch to monitoring frequencies between the highblood command and the rest of the military, taking another quick swig of you coffee between pauses. For the first time you grimace at the taste, Ugh. No one can ever get a good cup down here; maybe it's the air underground in this place. It's musty, wet, and all around moldy and it seems to seep into anything and everything down here. It's no wonder the food never tastes good.

But you are in dire need for the caffeine, never really have time for anything beyond sipping something out of a mug. You knock back the mug to shorten the unpleasant experience and crack through the various passwords to the communication line. Oh looks like the Grand Highblood had his little ceremony. You scan the list of those in attendance and save it into one of your servers for later review. Then comes the hard part, looking at the list of entertainment they had captured for it. The sick bastards liked to go digital on their conquest. You click your way through the links and force you way through the pictures of mangled bodies and unrecognizable faces. You sigh. It never gets any easer to see. The first scan is to look for any fellow revolutionaries and, when that turns up nothing, Persons of interest.

You immediately get a face you didn't want to see.

Karkat isn't going to be happy about this.


End file.
